


In Carcerem Veritas

by Riathel



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Light Angst, M/M, Post-Serial: s129 The Five Doctors, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Prison Cell, Wrongful Imprisonment, personal space? What personal space?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-07-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 03:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24488482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Riathel/pseuds/Riathel
Summary: The Doctor finds himself in prison, on unwarranted charges. Obviously, it's the Master's fault: but he's surprised to discoverwhichMaster.Remix ofCaptive Audience, by x_los.
Relationships: Third Doctor/The Master (Ainley)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Captive Audience](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517405) by [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los). 



> Due to quarantine, I kept re-reading old favourites over and over. I adored this fic so much, that I just had to have more - so, I wrote it! Ainley and Three are a very fun pairing. Please go read or re-read x_los' original fic!

It would probably have been kind to warn the Master of the impending guards, but the Doctor did not feel given to kindness today. He watched the Master’s stunned expression fall into blank unconsciousness, the man himself collapsing to the floor, with no little amusement. Finally. Some comeuppance.

“Guard,” the Doctor tried, attempting to talk as quickly as possible. One of the guards was poking the Master with a trenchard, the other making burbling noises as they communicated to their central command. “Guard, I really must warn you this man is an exceptionally dangerous criminal. I advise you to keep him under maximum security—”

“Silence, unworthy one,” gurgled the second guard. “Your words are poison. Return the vial to us, or speak no further.” They had been continuing this line of dialogue for an hour before the Master’s arrival. It was fortunate that now the Doctor could give them the answer they sought: obviously it had been the Master.

“If there is anything stolen, this – this vial you speak of, _he_ should be your prime suspect!” the Doctor said. “I know this man—”

That set the guards to further, agitated gurgling. Their cephalopod bodies squirmed, tentacles quivering, coated with phlegm. Perhaps it had been a mistake to admit their acquaintance. “An accomplice!” cried one.

“No, no, you have it all wrong! I'm telling you—”

“The council will know of this,” hissed another, and then the door to the cell slammed shut.

The Doctor sighed. He hung in the chains, exhausted with frustration; then, he tugged at the manacles with a furious, stifled cry. His mouth still ached from the previous ‘questioning’, sharp and sweet with old blood. His upper back was stretched grotesquely in the restraints. It, too, ached: a familiar pain, but one no more welcome for it. Here he was, suffering the indignities and outrages of imprisonment and torture, when the Master lay unimpeded on the floor. Unconscious, certainly, but he would revive shortly. The guards ought to have searched him - they would have found their precious vial then, if they hadn’t been so fixated on their manufactured idea of the Doctor’s guilt in this scheme.

He wondered, bitterly, how long the Master had known he was here. How he must have waited to spring this trap, with all the easy patience and childish glee he usually exhibited. But this time, it was unravelling more rapidly than he had obviously predicted. Had his allies abandoned him so quickly? A new personal best. Soon the whole universe might be wary of his bribery and blackmail; the Doctor could but live in hope.

“I hope you’re pleased with yourself,” he muttered at the unconscious man. “Oh, but you always are, aren’t you?”

The air in the cell lay thick in the air, cloying his lungs with each breath he took. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, something missing beyond the Master’s answering jibes. Uncomfortable silence followed his words, broken only by his own, soft breaths. That was the abnormality. He couldn’t hear the Master breathing — was there even a definite rise and fall to his chest? The Doctor peered, straining against his restraints to check. Everything was dreadfully still.

“Wake up,” he hissed. “For heaven’s sake, man, wake up!” Killed by a blow to the back of the head — and why hadn’t he regenerated — the whole thing had a bizarre element of awful parody to it. The Doctor gritted his teeth. As deserving of punishment as the Master was, he couldn’t in good faith leave him for dead. Maybe there was still some chance of hope. “Master, are you still there? Master!”

The air returned to the Master along with his consciousness. He woke, his expression glazed with shock, etched in pain. His eyes, blue even in the dim prison ambience, were dulled, with none of their natural, glittering humour, always as though he were laughing at some joke against the universe. Then he looked at the Doctor, expression softening into curiosity, curving around indulgence, a lazy smile drifting around his mouth. With a stab of revolted terror, the Doctor recognised that look, knew he would recognise it anywhere, on any body of the Master’s. He broke eye contact.

The stone walls of the prison were easier to look at than the spectre of his dead lover.

As if sensing his thoughts, the Master turned away, grimacing at the corner of the cell. Let him grimace. Let him scowl and glare and sneer. The Doctor would do much the same, willing his hearts to stop soaring and his blood to stop pounding. Time could afford them a minute to recompose themselves. He forced himself not to think; he couldn’t bear to feel the pangs of memory that hadn’t yet been dissolved by the passing of centuries.

“What are you in for, Doctor?” the Master said after a moment, voice calm. “Excessive blustering?”

He felt an answering coil of annoyance curling out of his chest. It was familiar, even easy, to give into it. Now things could return to normal.


	2. Chapter 2

Things had not, as of yet, returned to normal.

After a spot of their usual banter, the Master had begun making advances that were so overt the Doctor wondered if he had also taken a blow to the back of the head. Everything that was happening was sour and sudden, like an overripe fruit that had been set aside for too long — a fig pressed on his tongue, bursting to give up the ghost. And then the Master was squeezing the Doctor through trousers that suddenly felt far too thin.

“I’m telling you _no_ ,” the Doctor snapped, veering further and further against horror. He had nowhere else to go; the wall behind was unyielding and he refused to throw himself at the Master in any capacity.

“No?” the Master asked, tutting, all sympathy. As if he cared. As if he was giving consideration to the idea. He smiled, pleasantly enough, and slipped his hand beneath the fabric of the Doctor’s trousers, stroking his cock openly. “I remember you rejected my help when I risked my _single_ life to preserve all of yours in the Death Zone. I believe you’ve exhausted your store of objections, Doctor.”

“Would you like an apology, then?” the Doctor spat, feeling panic seize his chest. He swallowed. Nausea was a fine companion to the feeling, lending a sickly tinge of sweat to his revealed skin. They were above this; he, at least, was above this. “Fine. I should have been less childish during our encounter. I might’ve let you help me. It was foolish of me.”

“That’s certainly true,” replied the Master. For a moment, his hand stilled and the Doctor's cock twitched, craving more of that steady grip, the clever fingers snaking around the shaft. No. No, those were his baser instincts talking. He couldn’t allow himself to eat that over-ripened fig.

He opened his mouth to say something.

The words failed him.

“True,” the Master repeated, slicing neatly through the pregnant silence, “but, I am afraid, insufficient. I risked my body for you, and I want payment in kind. Lie still,” the Master suggested with a chuckle, “though you may find it difficult to do otherwise.”

“Let me down,” the Doctor ordered, regrouping. “We can still escape together. Master—”

The slap that connected against his jaw sent an answering throb of sensation through his cock. He gasped, then clenched his teeth: more from the shock than any real pain.

“I suspected you possessed a masochistic streak,” the Master observed. “But you left me so little opportunity to indulge.” He grinned, toothier than the proverbial wolf in the woods. “No matter. It will be amusing to make up for lost time.”

His hand was suddenly in the Doctor's trousers again; the Doctor slammed his head into the wall. He railed against the touch, trying to lift his legs up, away, _anywhere,_ only to be checked by the cool bite of metal at his ankles.

“Now, now,” the Master chided. “What was that quaint expression of yours? Oh yes; there’s a good chap.”

Combined with a hard squeeze to his cock, the Doctor could only groan in response. There was a solid feeling rising within him: bland, spotty, ruinous numbness. Like a knife, twisting into the very core of who he was. Every tight pull and decisive push felt like a betrayal of the highest order.

The restraints stretched him further than the Master’s full height — making it all the easier for the Master to idly flick open his jacket buttons one by one, his feline attention seemingly fixated on the act. Still he continued to torture the Doctor with the other hand, setting up a steady, slow rhythm.

“You’ve put on some bulk,” he said slyly. His fingers slid under the lapels of the Doctor’s jacket, brushing it over the Doctor’s shoulders; one button was left unmolested, and the jacket pooled around his hips. The Doctor jerked, furious and terrified, at the hand now testing his stomach.

“Get your hands off of me,” he hissed. He closed his eyes. That this could be as simple as a nightmare. “You’re unhinged. Delusional.” The slap against his other cheek caught him off guard, rendering him temporarily speechless.

“On the contrary,” said the Master, “I possess more clarity of mind than I ever have.” He fingered the ruffles on the Doctor’s shirt, teasing the fabric straight. “Whereas you, Doctor, appear to be _quite_ out of your depth.”

Damn the Master’s smug high-handedness. And damn himself for having gotten into this predicament to begin with. His brain whirled in circles, caught up in the minutiae of it all—he felt electric and awful, a live wire caught between anger and desire.

Trying to gather his thoughts, for the first time he watched the Master watching him. Now those eyes were glittering. In the darkness, against all sense, they shone. He didn’t know if they were grey or pale blue: didn’t know if it should matter; if it did matter; if he was being driven mad. The expression in the Master’s eyes was familiar in spite of his stranger’s body. Dark had metamorphosed into light: yet, it was hollow. The only changes the Master could ever make were superficial; every regeneration of his stunted.

The kiss caught the Doctor off-guard. A hand slid around the back of his neck, and lips were pressed gently to his own, smothering all alarm. These lips didn’t taste like what he remembered. None of the cool, bright sweetness of artron energy; time wasn’t altered by their joining, and he was almost suffocated by how linear the Master felt. Simple and clean. The kiss was almost kind. Almost tender enough to further shock the Doctor’s senses. That clever mouth teased him open, leaving him vulnerable — and then the Master pushed his tongue into the Doctor’s mouth. It was too much, too far, and too fast, as usual; but he had nowhere to go. He was swamped by the ribald suggestion of what further things this tongue could do — or, oh, Heavens, what further things this Master could do. He sucked, lightly, on the Doctor’s slack tongue, then swirled, as if to demonstrate. The deep penetration of the Master’s tongue met the tug of his hand.

The Doctor shuddered, growing slack in his bindings. They broke apart—one of them moaned—perhaps both of them moaned. It had been so long since the Master, since anybody, had kissed him like that.

“Cut free one of my hands,” he said, hoarse. The Master paused, drawing back; his eyes were unreadable.

“Why?” he asked, tone even.

“So I can—please, let me…” The Doctor swallowed. Now that the Master wasn’t stroking him, he felt the loss of it, the sense of deprivation. It had been why he had refused this for so long. “Let me touch you,” he finished, softly.

As the silence lengthened, he thought the Master might suddenly cut through with a cruel laugh: might refuse him out of spite, or malice, or genuine hatred. Instead, he gave a queer, leering smirk, and produced a wire from his pocket.

“Well, well,” he said, “I ought to have opted for the direct approach sooner.” He leaned upwards, to loop one end of the wire under the cuff securing the Doctor’s right wrist. They were pressed flush in this position—the Doctor could feel how stiff the Master was underneath his trousers. The length ought to have made it obvious before, but black had a way of disguising that which one did not wish to notice.

“You’ve no idea how tempted I have been on so _many_ occasions to simply throw you against a wall and ravish you,” continued the Master, his voice ringing high with glee.

“Had you?” muttered the Doctor. “I hadn’t the faintest.”

If he was bothered by the jibe, the Master gave no sign of it. “Prancing around in those ridiculous clothes, an outfit for every hour of the day, positively _gagging_ for it...”

“I hardly fail to see how my wardrobe has anything to do with it,” the Doctor snapped, a flush eclipsing his neck. “Your narcissistic tendencies aside—”

The Master cut through the last of the steel binding and suddenly snatched the Doctor’s wrist. “Don’t give me cause to regret indulging you,” he said quietly, consonants clipped, his hold tight.

He let go; the Doctor was forced to brace himself against the Master’s chest, his hand fisting in the fabric automatically. His hearts thudded thickly in his ears, part adrenaline, part anticipation. The electric feeling hadn’t faded at the sudden cold change of the Master’s tone — but nor had the Doctor's nausea.

“Now,” the Master purred, another abrupt switch to _bonhomie,_ “I do believe you were in the process of…?”

It was the Doctor’s turn to surprise; he wrenched the Master into another kiss, crushing the ridiculous velvet doublet in his grip. The fabric crunched under his fingers: sensation could ground him from the unreality of this. He didn’t let himself think about anything else, not his tenuous position, not the kiss, not the Master.

But, of course, it couldn’t be so easy.

A hand at the Doctor’s chin forced him back into the wall, neatly smacking his head on the limestone.

“Doctor, Doctor, what a disappointing performance,” the Master said, his scolding tone still insufferably jubilant. “Years of disuse have made you rusty.”

The Doctor snarled. “I refuse to accept advice from someone who kisses like a public schoolboy. All tongue and no technique.”

Unfortunately, the Master only chuckled. “You can’t bite your way out of this.”

Typical, it was all so typical. The Doctor gritted his teeth. Each time he’d striven to give just enough, the Master wanted more. No libation could satisfy him; here was a self-made deity driven mad with bloody-minded ambition. And the Doctor allowed it. _Indulged_ it.

“Come closer then,” he said, forcing the words out, hating it. He was still so hard, despite his visceral, moral repulsion. “Press into me.”

They eased into their third kiss. That numb shock from earlier was beginning to settle over him again, heady and thick. Or perhaps it was the taste of the Master: wrong, somehow alien to the Doctor’s senses. Surely not even a regeneration could…

He moaned as the Master took him precisely at his word, and pressed their cocks flush together. Too late, he bit his lip, parting from the kiss. He realised his error when the Master pulled him hard against the remaining chain, and began to mouth at the side of his neck. The feeling was so crippling it could hardly be called pleasure. It swamped him utterly, drowning his reticence — he hadn’t expected something so gentle to be so overwhelming. The Doctor knew he was fucking against the Master, hips fluttering in shallow, abortive movements, his hand scrabbling to get under the Master’s doublet. His mind was at war; if it both didn’t and shouldn’t feel pleasurable, there was no reason for the sweat collecting underneath his shirt, the whimpers lodging in his throat, the aching pulse of blood in his cock. He forced his eyes open: stared at the darkness of the ceiling; he couldn’t, he couldn’t—

The Master bit his neck; the Doctor screamed in a choked, hoarse breath, jerked, and came.

The muffled giggle into his neck told him all he needed to know about the Master’s reaction to that. Nevertheless, it wasn’t long before the Master hurriedly freed himself from his trousers. If he had intended to come on the Doctor’s pants, he didn’t make it that far — he got as far as one gloved hand on his ridiculously over-inflated member and promptly made a mess on the limestone floor. All the build-up of a pantomime with the conclusion of a soap opera.

Their silence in the aftermath cut an odd fit between companionable and awkward. The Doctor’s head felt queasy, and his stomach dizzy. It had been centuries since… oh, he’d wanted to with Jamie, but the timing was never right. Just another regret, really. Regardless, he had expected that this body might last longer than that.

Regaining his composure (namely, by zipping up his trousers), the Master exhaled, mouth settling naturally into a smirk and his voice into gloating smugness: “A passable diversion.”

Finding he couldn’t disagree without seeming something of a hypocrite, the Doctor merely sighed. “Let me down, will you?” he groused. “My back was intolerably sore _before_ you arrived.”

The Master drew back, examining him as if to test the veracity of this claim. “You and I escaping through the corridors of a prison complex? The idea has a certain nostalgic charm to it, I will admit, however…” He grinned and pronounced: “I think not.”

The Doctor stiffened. “You can’t be serious!”

“Oh, were it up to me, I would gladly cut you free, Doctor,” the Master replied, “you always do make things more interesting. But I’m afraid I’ve used up too much time with our little dalliance — a pre-arranged appointment calls, and I must answer.”

“You can’t leave me here!” the Doctor snapped, trying to stretch as far as his freed arm could extend for the Master — who merely stepped nimbly out of reach. “Master!”

“Vale, Doctor,” the Master said, laughing.

Calling out for him (even as his soft chuckling bounced down the walls of the prison) seemed too much like the humiliating defeat that the Master no doubt intended to be the Doctor’s fate. He clenched his teeth, pressing his head back into the wall. Well, he wouldn’t give the Master the satisfaction of it. Besides...

He stretched down and fished the glass vial out of his inside pocket; during their powwow, his jacket had dangled precariously closer and closer towards the floor. At least his sleeves weren’t collecting dust. He examined the serum with a critical eye, tilting it this way and that. Straw-coloured, the syrupy liquid resisted the heavy gravity on Yuggoth.

As he suspected; not only would it be utterly disastrous for the Master to have his hands on this, the Yuggothians had been tampering with the Laws of Time as well. Penthofol was an exceptionally dangerous truth serum, commonly delivered through the insertion of tentacles into the ear canal. Certainly, it belonged to the Yuggothians — it had been developed by them for use as an anaesthetic — but not for another thousand years. Heaven alone knew what destruction they could cause when they were still in their more primitive and violent era.

“Well,” the Doctor said to himself, running a thumb over the vial’s stopper. “There’s something to be said about catching two birds with honey.” He grinned. “Or was that flies?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and many thanks to [extryn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extryn/pseuds/extryn) for the beta. It was such fun writing this fic, both Three and Ainley are Too Much in the best ways (and their respective, traditional pairings don't always give the opportunity to explore that in full detail.) Thanks again to [x_los](https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los) for her permission on this remix, please go read her fic!


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